What Dreams May Come
by mirifaery
Summary: He likes to keep himself in the shadows, content with being the power behind the most elite music programs in the country. When Christine Daae stumbles into his grasp, his first instinct is to shape her, mold her into a star. She only knows him as the "Angel of Music", her mysterious benefactor. He is determined to make that change, for men can do what angels cannot...
1. Chapter 1

_"I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it, but take care not to smile at any part of it."_

* * *

She was thirteen the first time Erik saw her, a shy little auditionee with big blue eyes shielded by overlarge glasses and a massive amount of white-blond hair. Her father followed behind, a tall, thin man with greying temples. She drew back upon reaching the microphone and looked at her father. He gave her a gentle push forward. "It's alright, sweet pea. Go on."

"Name, please," Erik said from behind the screen. Four hours of mind-numbing auditions had made him slip a little, kept him working methodically without putting much thought into it.

"Christine Daae." The microphone crackled as she pulled it down to her height, making her wince and and wrinkle her nose.

"Hand over your accompaniment tape, please." He slid open the window at the bottom of the screen. She deposited the tape and clasped her hands in front of her, twisting her fingers back and forth.

"Stand up, honey," her father whispered. She dropped her hands, squared her. shoulders, lifted her chin. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. "Don't be nervous. You've got this."

She smiled a little.

"Thirty-two bars, Miss..." He'd forgotten already.

"Daae." She didn't seem to mind.

The music began, very softly. It was a slightly-out-of tune piano, plinking out the notes of a particularly well-known Handel air he must have heard at least ten times today in varying degrees of capability. He settled back in his chair, only half listening.

"_Lascio ch'io pianga  
mia cruda sorte  
e che sospiri_ _la libertà._"

He sat up.

The voice itself was not extraordinary - good, yes, clear and sweet, passable technique - but the singer herself made him listen. She sang with her eyes wide and shining, glowing with some inner light. There was an energy and love for music exuding from her - a _life _of the kind he hadn't seen all day. She could have made a grown man cry - in fact her father was near to bursting with tears and pride as he stood behind her.

"Thank you very much, Miss Daae," he said, cutting her off gently. "We will be in touch soon."

She blinked in surprise. "Oh, um, I..." Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for your time."

He almost smiled. "It was my pleasure, Miss Daae."

As father and daughter exited the audition room, Erik leaned back in his chair, considering. It seemed too good that a gift like this had been just dropped into his lap. A young, mold-able voice, brimming with the kind of potential that if properly cared for, could bring the world to its knees. This girl could be a wonder. With the right teacher, of course.

He would have to keep a very close eye on Christine Daae.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine flew out to their mailbox to check for a letter every day the minute the mail was delivered, despite her father's good-humored protests that there wouldn't have been nearly enough time for anybody to have come to a decision yet. After a few days, when her mad mailbox dash yielded nothing, Christine conceded, but she still rushed to the window and waited expectantly for her father to come home from work and take the mail in.

It took quite a lot of self control not to fling herself up and ask eagerly, "Is there anything for me, Daddy?" so she sat fidgeting, swinging her feet and pretending to read. But he was never fooled; he would tuck her hair behind her ear and say, "Be patient, silly goose, these things take time."

Christine was not very good at being patient, and after a couple weeks she began to get very discouraged. She would plop down on her bed with a little scowl when there was still no letter and think in a melodramatic thirteen-year-old way that she didn't want to get into that stupid school anyway and those adjudicators could go jump off a cliff. She pouted for a good week and her father had to try very hard not to smile and take her sulking as seriously as she would want. So when he dropped a thick white envelope in her lap about six weeks after her audition it took her a minute to realize what it was. Then she squeaked and tore it open, scanning the letter with wide eyes.

"Well?" he prompted. "What's the news?"

She looked up, a grin spreading across her face. She read aloud, "Dear Miss Daae: Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Royal Conservatory of Music. Welcome!" She crushed the paper to her chest, smiling even more widely.

"Well, congratulations, sweet pea!" He picked her up about the waist and twirled her around. Christine giggled a protesting "Daaaaaddy!" and received a bristly kiss on the crown of her head. "Let's celebrate, hm? We can have dinner at a fancy place. Think that'll be fun?"

She nodded. She couldn't stop smiling and bouncing up and down on her heels, nearly skipping out of the room and barreling up the stairs.

* * *

Christine, wearing her second-best dress and scrubbed clean school shoes, could hardly keep still for nerves. She kept looking over her shoulder to see if the office door had opened yet (which it hadn't), tapping her toes impatiently and pretending she wasn't impatient. It was scheduling day. There were two months before classes began and Christine still had to remind herself that it was real every morning. She was purposefully ignoring her father, who was sitting beside her and nearly giggling every time her feet moved.

The loudspeaker beside the door buzzed. "Miss Daae?"

Christine jumped. "Yes, hello, that's me, hi."

"Come on in, it's your turn now."

"Oh, um. Okay. Thank you." She popped up, straightening her skit and grinned at her dad. He gave her a high five.

Christine peeked in. A very thin man was seated at the desk. He wore a very expensive-looking suit and gloves and Christine felt a little drab in her slightly shabby gingham dress. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail at the base of his neck and surveyed her with a raised eyebrow. "Come in, Miss Daae, it's quite all right."

"Oh. Sorry." She pushed her glasses up her nose.

"Sit down." He gestured to the chair before his desk. She sat, and smoothed her skirt.

He smiled. "My name is Mr. Rouen. How are you today?"

"I'm alright." She folded her hands in her lap to resist the urge to play with her hair.

"You seem a little nervous." His smile was really very kind, though a bit lopsided.

"Maybe just a little." She had to smile in return.

"Well, you shouldn't be." He winked and pulled out a stack of papers from a desk drawer. "Here you are, Miss Daae. Now, you put down voice as your primary interest, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. And have you scheduled meetings with any private teachers?"

"Yes."

"And have you chosen one?"

Christine hesitated. Mr. Rouen looked up, expectant. "Well...not exactly."

He raised one eyebrow. He was very good at that; the other one didn't move at all while the other nearly rose to his hairline. "You do need a private teacher, Miss Daae."

She twisted her mouth. "Oh, I know, but...well, they're all kind of scary."

"Scary?" he said.

"Maybe not scary, but just...awfully strict. They didn't seem to like anybody younger than them very much."

He might have chuckled. "No, I don't suppose they do." He laid his pen down and considered her. "You still need a teacher."

"Couldn't you do it?" Christine blurted. She blushed. "I'm sorry. That was - that was - you're just so _nice _-"

But he was smiling at her. "I do teach, Christine. But only for very special students."

She looked down at her lap. Her face was burning. "Right, I'm sorry. It was a stupid question."

"No. No, not at all. Christine," here he leaned forward and clasped his hands on the desk, "I think you are an _exceptional _student."

She raised her eyes. His were twinkling at her. "Really?"

"I really do. And it would be my pleasure to have you as my student."

She put her hands over her mouth. "Oh, that's wonderful. Wait." She lowered her hands. "You actually teach _voice_, don't you?"

He laughed. "Yes. Yes, I do, Christine. Now, let's finish the rest of your schedule, shall we?"

* * *

Erik stood in front of his mirror, leaning close to remove the brown color-contacts. It had been easier than expected to get the actual freshman counselor out of the way for an hour so he could have Christine's time slot. The most difficult thing, really, had been the prosthetics, and, as he examined them in the mirror, they looked perfectly real. He allowed himself a little smile, and then very carefully began to pry off his nose. It had been terribly itchy. Next came eyebrows, the chin putty, and then (these were the hardest to remove) the cheek fillers. He scrubbed his face clear of adhesive and makeup. The entire process took a good hour.

Erik sighed and ran his hands through his hair. It had been a long day. Perhaps a bottle of wine was in order.


End file.
